Mondays Always Bring Me Down
by Remi G. Craeg
Summary: Some days seem to start bad and spiral from there.


Mondays Always Bring Me Down  
by Remi Craeg

A gray shirt lay lifelessly on the floor, and concealed beneath it was a sock. If the sock had eyes, it would know where his shoe hid. And if that sock had a right and left limb, it would know that the shoe was to its right, beneath the bed. Of course, the sock had neither of these things, so it was not surprising that it didn't announce its find to Mulder, lacking vocal cords entirely.

Meanwhile, Mulder continued his frantic search, convinced the elusive article deviously jumped below a pile of gym shorts or other dirty laundry…and everything he owned was in on it. He realized that conspiracies involving inanimate objects were a new low, but with a sly grin he thought they'd at least make an interesting X-File.

The sock remained silent. Just as he was about to give up, which he ruefully noted would require an entirely different suit, his phone rang. Next to his cell phone sat a bedside clock. Before he accepted the call that was most likely his partner's genuine concern, he glanced at the timepiece, dutifully reminding him that time did not pause during an unsuccessful hunt, and that he was indeed late.

"Mulder, where are you?" she whispered harshly. He wasn't sure he'd ever been afraid of a whisper until then.

"Where are _you_?" He knew he shouldn't ask that, it was a dumb question really, but because she had the ability to answer, unlike his shoe, _any_ answer would be satisfying enough.

"I'm in Skinner's office. You're the one that called this damn meeting."

"That was today?" Another dumb question.

"God, Mulder. You better get here soon or—"

"I know, Scully, you'll slice me into a thousand pieces with a rusty scalpel. I'm in the car now," he lied straight through his teeth. She didn't need to know the ugly details of his failed wardrobe. Maybe he should start setting out his outfits each night like his mother used to do when he was nine. He couldn't recall a time when he was ever late to the third grade.

It was eight seventeen when he really got into his car. A few shattered traffic laws later and the federal building was in view. He took the stairs three at a time until he reached the elevator, where he spent a good forty seconds debating whether to head directly to Skinner's office without his notes, before stabbing the basement's button. Scully was going to skin him alive.

She was waiting in their office, beautifully sans scalpel, with her hands on her hips and a nasty scowl on her face. Mulder held up a tentative hand in hopes of passing it off as a hello/peace-offering/block against whatever pain she might inflict upon him. It didn't really work.

"Mulder, the next time you decide to call a meeting first thing in the morning, would you mind showing up for it? Or at the very least brief me on _any_ of the details so I don't look like a complete fool in front of our superior?" Scully waited impatiently for his apology, which came dutifully after he shucked his suit jacket.

"I'm sorry, Scully. I haven't had the best morning," he explained and began to button the rest of his shirt securely. He'd left in such a hurry that only half the shirt's buttons were lucky enough to be coupled with a hole so early in the morning. His tie barely had a loop, let alone a knot.

The crooked tie was the first thing Scully noticed. She walked up to him before he could finish the buttons, pulled the knot loose, and started over. He glanced at her, regarded her carefully, reevaluated her homicidal tendencies, and noticed an unfamiliar pull at her lips. Did he detect a small smile? If he were a fool, he'd consider mentioning his discovery. He preferred to keep his maleness for another day.

"Mulder, I've never met an adult man who could tie his tie so badly."

"Maybe you're hanging out with the wrong men, Scully. It's truly an art—" The rest of his comment was cut rather short with an overzealous tightening of her perfect knot.

"Where are your notes?" she asked, and circled his desk as if it were prey, and eyed the piles of paper like a vulture over a carcass.

"They're in my briefcase, in the bottom drawer." He refrained from the additional directions which involved certain unmentionable motion pictures.

Scully retrieved the entire bag, dropping it to his blotter, and left it for him to recover. Satisfied that it would get up and leave, she glanced up to find Mulder still struggling to dress himself. At that point, she wasn't above dressing him herself.

"Come here, Mulder." He eyed her carefully again, noting her balled fists, and briefly considered running out the door. She glared at him until he moved. Slowly, he offered the arm that was causing so much trouble. The cuff's smallest button didn't seem to fit correctly in the hole provided, but with surgical precision, rather a pathologist's scorn he suspected, she made it fit.

"You can tuck in your own shirt," she instructed him and grabbed his jacket.

"Sure you don't want to try? You're on a roll…"

"Mulder, I'm about three seconds away from losing a bullet in your skin. Want to reconsider how close tucking your shirt in would put me to your reproductive organs?"

"You make it sound so dirty."

Scully gave him one last frown for good measure and held the coat open for his hands to find the armholes. After one last inspection that he seemed to pass, she set a fast pace to Skinner's office, absentmindedly wondering if his seeming lack of hole-finding skills translated into messier problems than just with dress.

"Did your bed spring another leak?" she asked as if it'd been on her mind since he walked in.

Mulder winced. That would've been easier to explain. "Not exactly."

She was about to ask him to expand when the doors lurched open to reveal a very aggravated secretary.

"Oh, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully," she nodded in their respective directions "A.D. Skinner is waiting for your presentation." For some reason, her voice was a little less sharp than Scully's had been. Perhaps it was just because she wanted him. Perhaps not. There was a time when Mulder believed Scully wanted him. Wanted him like a bad rash.

Scully shot him an I-told-you-so/I'm-going-to-twist-off-your-nuts/That-better-be-one-hell-of-a-case look. He wasn't sure what to do so he followed her like a lost puppy.


End file.
